This Brave New World
by cactusx33
Summary: Two of the most dangerous individuals in the world wake up in a completely different one after dying in violent circumstances. Finding their feet, they set out to form the greatest criminal enterprise this other earth has ever seen. There will be cunning, blood, betrayal and scheming in This Brave New World
1. Chapter 1: Awakening

_A/N: This contains **spoilers. **The whole story, really. If you haven't reached Face Off or The Reichenbach Fall, this will spoil quite a good deal. I don't want to put you off reading this story, but the last thing I would ever want to do is spoil the end of either episode because they are both masterpieces. _

_I only had one primary drive for writing this. I believe that the protagonists of this story are the two greatest villains television has ever given us. Bar none. When I watched some repeats of both shows on Netflix I decided I really have to put them in a fanfic together. The fantasy world and more or less everything grew out of that one desire, although I've had inspiration from a few books and films around the subject of another world. _

_Quick note before we begin...I know it looks like (spoiler spoiler spoiler) Moriarty is back at the end of Sherlock series four. I don't know if that's the case or it will turn out to be one of his disciples, Moran etc, carrying out his last wishes in the event Sherlock is alive. Or maybe I'll work it in to the story? I never have an idea of the end when I set out writing a story. Keeps things interesting. _

_Please enjoy! I own neither character. _

The plain was long, endless and so peaceful it was surreal. It sloped gently, twisting and winding carelessly as it stretched as far as the eye could see. The sun, or a son, shone down, coating it in golden sunlight and illuminating the pathway ahead. Birdsong came from the few distant, misshapen trees scattered around the landscape. It had a different sound to that he had heard, an altogether higher pitch. The birds were not from earth. None of this was from earth.

He walked the plain slowly, cautiously. He wore a dark suit, a business suit, although he couldn't altogether recall why. Some of the grass was damp and this spread to the hems of his trousers, but he was too at peace to care.

He walked for miles without seeing another face or an end to this journey. Whatever world he was on, it did not rotate in the same angle around this alien sun, and thus he couldn't tell what time of day it was. He deduced by the level of light that it was early afternoon, but he couldn't be any more precise than that. He was hungry; the feeling had been growing in his stomach for the past hour or so. Hunger normally wouldn't have worried him, but he had seen no animals on this plain, and no vegetation apart from the grass and misshapen, lightly coloured trees. Was there any food here? Would he die?

As he journeyed on, and the hunger got worse, he saw a blot on the landscape ahead of him. It was a dark figure ahead, about a hundred yards in front of him. The figure was walking, purposefully, in his direction. Was he (it was almost certainly a he, from the gait) there to kill him? He had died before - he did not know how he knew that, but he knew it was true. He had died only a short time ago.

The figure got closer. He was tall, dark (Hispanic, perhaps) and wore a dark shirt and blue trousers. The shirt had rips and tears on the right side. He was about fifty, and wore one of the least expressive expressions he had ever seen. It wasn't vacant or bored; it was coldly and pragmatically observant, a stony poker face not giving an ounce of emotion away. The man made him realise that he was dressed as well; he had a dark suit that was covered in something unpleasant. He'd been clothed all the time; he just hadn't realised.

"Good afternoon," said the stranger. His voice was deep, exotic, and like his face, unemotional. "Have you wandered long?"

"What is this place?" he replied, in a daze. He's been so overwhelmed by the strangeness and eerie serenity of the place that the stranger's calm outlook was a maddening impossibility.

"A stranger I met a few miles back called it the Elysian Fields," replied the man, as if discussing the weather. "I liked it, so I'm repeating it to you."

"The Eleysian Fields?" he asked. "Like in Greek mythology?"

"Precisely," said the stranger, giving the faintest of nods. "I like the name because of how vivid it is. The realm of the undead. But I don't think this is the afterlife, and while I'm sure we both died, I think we're very much alive. You're hungry. Starving, in fact. You're making all the right noises. And I have jabbed myself enough with my fingernail to convince me that all my biology is in place."

"I am starving," he agreed, and with the verbalisation he realised how true this was. He realised also from the pain in his feet that he had been walking for at least half a day.

"We should get formally introduced," said the man. "I've been in search of a travelling companion, perhaps just while we get out of the fields, and the strangers I've come across have not been up to the task. "My name..."

"You don't need to tell me your name," he replied. Something was coming back, an instinct. Intelligence. Observation. He had a phenomenally gifted mind, and it was seemingly only just now willing to remind him of the fact.

He took a deep breath. "I know exactly who you are. The first thing I noticed about you was your military bearing. You've got it in the way you walk and the way you stand. But you've tried to disguise it. Nothing as vulgar as bad posture but everything about you screams that you don't want to be identified as someone who used to kill on command. You weren't a grunt, though; you have the air of someone who used to command a lot of rank."

He continued breathlessly. "That alone wouldn't identify you, but I'm only getting started. Your accent is South American in origin, and it's a fair guess to say that that's where your military background. I think you were in a junta. The stoicism says you did a lot of things you're not proud of and the little bit of arms dealing I've done in that continent tell me that juntas are the only ones that train their soldiers. I'm going to take a stab and say either Pinochet's Chile or Galtieri's Argentina."

The whirlwind continued. He felt his cunning returning to him."As for the rest...under your South American accent you've got a slight northern inflection. You've spent time in the States. As for region, there are four different types of sand caked into your trousers. Dry cleaning hasn't removed them. You've been around desert, which could be California, or Arizona or New Mexico. Those are the trousers; let's take a look at your shirt, putting the tears to one side. It's got splotches of grease, definitely from a deep fat fryer, and dry cleaning hasn't done anything for it. You've been spending a lot of time around the frier, and the shirt you've been doing it in suggests you either own or manage a fast food restaurant."

He geared himself for the masterstroke. "You used to be in the Chilean or Argentinian junta, let's say Chilean. You moved to America to set up a fast good empire. And your shirt suggests that you've recently been in the proximity of a pipe bomb. You could really only be one man...Gustavo Fring, recently-deceased head of one of the biggest crystal meth operations in the US."

Fring was visibly taken aback, and his shock pierced his stoicism. "That's...remarkable. Only a handful of people know my true identity. And even fewer know my part in the Pinochet regime."

"I know things about criminals all over the globe," he said, without boast. "It's my business. Can you tell who I am? Let's see how wide your knowledge basis is, Mister Fring."

"I have to admit an unfair advantage," Gustavo said. "I saw your picture, and I recognise it now. It was during your trial...you're wearing a very similar suit now to then. I'd been unaware of you until then, and while I didn't pay you much need after, I had to admit a professional curiosity. You're the Napoleon of crime, allegedly the world's first and foremost consulting criminal. Jim Moriarty. It's a pleasure."

"Thank you," said Moriarty. "Do you have anything to eat? I really am fucking starving."

"No," responded Fring, and his tone betrayed a startling lack of empathy. "But, once we hit the highway, I think there'll be plenty of it."

"Some of the people you talked to are from here," Moriarty deduced. "Or at least they've been here longer. They told you about what was beyond Elysian Fields."

"You really do have a startling intellect, Mister Moriarty," said Fring. "You're right. I've been able to get out of Elysian Fields since this morning. What I've been looking for, as I mentioned, is a travelling companion. The reports I've heard tell me this highway can be dangerous."

"You can call me Jim," Moriarty replied. "Let's hit the road."

They began to walk. Fring led the way, but they were side by side. He walked with the air of someone who knew exactly where to go, though with his blank, expressionless face, there was no way of knowing how true that was. The impossibly, dazzlingly bright afternoon had given way to a warm, glowing evening. The bizarre trees swayed in the gathering wind, which also sent a brief chill through Moriarty's bones. He didn't need to study the cycle of this alien sun to know it would be dark soon.

"So, Mister Fring," he said, after a silence that lasted around ten minutes.

"Gustavo, if you please. Gus."

"Okay, Gus. As we were talking about, you died. You got half of your face blown off like a Batman villain. Heisenberg, right? The South West's newest and most prominent drug lord?"

"Correct," said Fring, and he couldn't disguise the irritation that had crept into his voice. "You're dead also. Or, to choose my words carefully, you have died. After me, so I don't know the manner."

"I won a game the only way I possibly could," Moriarty replied. "But we're both dead. Which leads me to conclude that this is some sort of afterlife."

"What about reincarnation?" Fring asked, and his pace slowed slightly. "There are certain philosophers that believe that the human life is a never-ending coil. When a man dies before his time, his life is resumed, in our world, or another. And when his life reaches its natural conclusion, again on another world. When people talk about the circle of life, they're normally referring to the fact that when one someone dies, another is born. What if the circle of life takes place within a single human, recycled throughout eternity, on billions and billions of new worlds?"

"If your theory's right," said Moriarty, as his hunger forcibly picked up their pace, "then why don't people get reborn as themselves on earth? You get plenty of people who talk about their past lives, but they're born and raised on earth."

Fring thought for a moment. "Perhaps earth has a definite point in the life cycle." He gave a small, noncommittal shrug. "But it's definitely not the afterlife. This could never be heaven or hell. If it was hell...then this wouldn't be fair to the angels, would it?" He gestured to the natural beauty around them.

"And why can't it be heaven?" asked Moriarty.

"Think about it, Jim," said Fring, and a wry smile crossed his features. "If this were heaven, would either of us be there?"

They stopped for a moment, and in perfect unison, erupted into laughter. Moriarty put a hand on Fring's shoulder, supporting himself as he shook with laughter, his stomach heaving. Fring was clearly a man not used to laughing, but now he had an ear-to-ear grin and a tear of pure laughter spilt from his eye.

After a pure moment of such bizarre joy, the men became serious again and continued on their path. They both knew, without saying a word, why they'd erupted the way they did over such a small joke. Every so often in his past life, Moriarty would reflect on his terrible deeds and wonder if hell was waiting for him after he died. He was sure Fring had the same fears, especially considering how rampant Catholicism was in Chile. For them to not only evade hell but to wake up in this beautiful place was a cause for relief, and utter joy. It made them laugh because it was the closest happy emotion on hand. It was a laugh of defiance against any notion of divine retribution.


	2. Chapter 2: The Road

After what could have been another hour's worth of walking, Fring pointed to what looked like tire tracks. They stopped abruptly on their end, but on the other, they kept going for what could have been miles.

"Some of the people I spoke to made these tracks," said Fring. "They had a car...it wasn't like any car I've ever seen, but it was a car. They told me a lot. They had come to the fields to relax, as I think some people on this world do, provided they have the means to return. I asked the people if they would drive me back to where they came from, but there wasn't space."

Moriarty nodded, and they began to follow the tracks. A silence fell over the two men. Moriarty felt the damp cold of his own blood as it caked the top half of his suit. He felt a nausea that briefly override his hunger. As soon as he got any clothes to wear he would burn the Westwood, giving his old uniform a Viking burial. He sensed Fring would do the same, and that discarded somewhere on a far-flung corner of the Elysian Fields there was a crisp blue suit jacket, expensively tailored, with chunks of brain splattered all over it.

He pondered that as they walked. Why did people wake up in this world in the clothes they died in? Nothing else that was in his pocket; his wallet, his phone, had been carried over, but his blood-soaked designer suit had survived intact. It maddeningly bewildered him, but he managed to put it out of his mind with the help of the hunger. They were making their way; the tracks got thicker until they came across a broken end of road. It was not dark Tarmac but some lighter material, and the patch of road slightly shined as the setting sun's rays fell on it. The road led through a patch of those strange alien trees, which obscured everything beyond it.

As they came to the other side of the tree border, the highway greeted them. It was an American-styled highway, wide and straight for as many miles as the eye could see. The road was made of the same lighter building material and it glistened similarly. The highway was not on long grass like the Elysian Fields, but a dustier, more arid ground.

A car shot past from the right hand side, its appearance preceded by the loud, aggressive roar of its engine. Moriarty called it a car, but it was unlike any he had ever seen. The only way he could describe it would be as a cross between an American SUV and an oversized dune buggy. It was wide, and some of the parts were clearly makeshift. The car seemed barely able to keep itself together, but it was tearing across the highway at a breakneck speed.

"Jesus," he said. "I hope that's not the standard here."

"I imagine so," Fring replied, as the car shot out of view. "Mass production, the internal combustion engine...the average man doesn't know how to build these things. This world might only be populated by average men."

"Until now, anyway," Moriarty replied. Fring nodded. Before they could decide which way to walk, they heard the roar of another engine, signalling another vehicle. Judging by the sound, they would have another few seconds before the car would be on them. Moriarty could see it as a blip on the horizon.

"Do you know CPR?" he asked.

"Yes, why?"

Moriarty made a choking sound, and crumpled to the ground suddenly, his body making a slight thud as it collapsed. He lay flat, his body sprawled awkwardly. His eyes rolled to the back of his head and his mouth hung open. Fring regarded him with shock for a brief moment then, acting on impulse, sunk to his knees and began to beat his chest, performing CPR as he best remembered.

The car stopped in front of them. It was a rust bucket just like the previous one. The driver was a tall, portly man in his fifties. He wore a loose-fitting white shirt, pale jeans and a straw cowboy hat. His face was deeply tanned and he had a blonde moustache. He rushed over to where Fring was administering CPR, and knelt down to look at the prone man.

"What in the hell happened to 'um?" he asked, searching for life in Moriarty's face. He had a deep southern accent with a touch of the Appalachians about it.

"Nothing this won't solve," said Moriarty, opening his eyes. Before the man could react he took the flat end of his palm and drove it into the man's chin with as much force as he could muster. The man's head rocked back with a sickening crunch, and before Fring could blink Moriarty was on his feet, clutching a rock he'd picked up off the ground. He smashed the rock against the Good Samaritan's temple, and Fring knew that he had killed him. Moriarty, still operating at an incredible speed, smashed the rock against the man's head twice more before he hit the ground. Blood gushed out around him, and they both stepped back to avoid soaking their shoes.

"C'mon, let's get him in the boot," said Moriarty. "We can't bury him here, it's too exposed." Fring wordlessly agreed, and they carried the body into the boot of the car. Moriarty fished through his pockets and found the car key. It was not a traditional key, but an Allan key with divots carved into it. He also took some notes that he assumed were currency. They used the cowboy hat to soak up the worst of the blood and moved to the front.

Having the key, Moriarty took a look at the notes from the man's pocket. They were unremarkable, and only contained the words "20 ECD, Praxius Mint" in a faded print. Written slightly below was "Trust Him", the letters about half the size. Below the writing, on the bottom left hand side of the note, was a square sheet of gold leaf. It wasn't a particularly high carat, but it was there, and it shone in the last of the evening sun. He couldn't believe it wasn't the first thing he noticed. He passed the banknote to Fring, who studied it, admiring the gold leaf.

"Praxius," he said, handing it back. "Is that where we are, do you think?"

"Doubtful," said Moriarty, pocketing it. "I don't see a mint around here. What do you think ECD stands for?"

"Not a clue," said Fring. Moriarty put the Allan key in the ignition and the car purred into life. They took off, the same way that the unfortunate driver had been going. The alien sun was close to setting, and the highway was getting dark. It was a sunset just like that on earth, and just as beautiful. There was something Moriarty couldn't determine about how this planet rotated around it, though; there was no wind, but something in his natural sense of direction told him that they were going east.

"The sun sets in the east, here, I think," he said, voicing his suspicions. "This planet rotates the opposite direction."

"You know, I think you're right," said Fring, gazing forward at the sun thoughtfully. "We're travelling south east."

They drove on in relative silence. Moriarty had never handled a car like this one. It shook as he sped up, and he felt like their weights were fighting to keep it bolted to the road. He imagined that if you put a brick on the accelerator, the car would just tip upwards, like a motorbike when its rider pops too high a wheelie. At first, Moriarty wondered if the corpse in the boot was weighing them down, but he could tell after not too long that it was just the car. The noise was not nearly as bad inside though; he'd expected the roar to be deafening from the inside but it was smooth as a low moan. The highway took a slight turn to the left and he cleared it, steering like a professional. For all he'd been insulting the car earlier, it handled wonderfully. While Formula One back on earth would scoff at its design, they would probably fall in love with it if they tried it out.

The growling in his stomach told him that his hunger was back. What if this road led nowhere? Even on American highways, you could go a hundred miles without so much as a burger van jotting the highway. Was it possible this highway was even more devoid of life? He'd seen nothing yet, and if he had been on a road on earth he would have seen at least one house in the distance. He supposed that people like the previous owner of their car wouldn't travel the roads if they led to nothing for a thousand miles. There had to be something their victim was driving to.

"Stop the car," said Fring suddenly, and he spun his head around. He'd been silently observing the scenery, but his cunning, beady eyes had fixed on something. Moriarty ground to a halt, and his passenger immediately got out. He gestured for him to follow, and after a few steps, pointed to a road sign in the dusk. It was wooden and barely on its hinge, but it was definitely a road sign.

"Jesus Christ," said Moriarty. "Thank fuck."

They moved to its front and studied the roadsign. The directions had been burned into the wood with some kind of soldering iron, and the effect was that the thing looked like a child had erected it. They studied the writing, which, despite the effect of the soldering iron, was very legible.

"Pangaw. 3CM," Fring read, shrugging. "Do you know what it means?"

"Of course not. But CM is obviously a unit of distance otherwise it wouldn't be on a roadsign. I'd guess Pangaw is a town? Maybe even a city? Either way," he said, and an edge crept into his voice, "both of our healths are going to deteriorate if we waste any more time."

Fring was briefly taken aback, and his cold eyes bore straight into Moriarty's. The look in his eyes said that he wasn't accustomed to receiving threats, and he did not take well to them. Any other man would have taken Fring's gaze as a cue to back down, to take a step back and perhaps mumble some kind of apology without losing face. The Napoleon of Crime, however, did not move an inch and met his travelling companion's eyes without blinking. The standoff lasted for perhaps three seconds without either man saying a word. After those three seconds, which could have lasted a lifetime to either one of them, Fring's featured softened and he turned towards the car.

"You're right," he said, slowly. "Let's move."

They sat in the same places as they got into the car. Moriarty sped them in the direction of Pangaw. He pictured the kind of place it would be. The crude wooden road sign suggested it was probably not a metropolis, probably some one-horse town where cars would gas-up. Did cars take petrol here? He had no way of telling, but he struggled to think of what alternative fuel they would use. This was most certainly not an electric car.

There was no small-talk for the next step of the journey. It was a contented silence, not awkward, but one of two individuals who simply don't have anything pressing to say to one another. Moriarty started a yawn and stifled it. He was tired as well as hungry; once they ate and found a convenient place to dump the body, he would sleep like baby.

After a few minutes, he saw it.

In front of them on the highway rose a stone wall, around twenty feet in height. The stone was of an old, dark texture, making it look vaguely medieval. Behind this wall there was a town. He could only see it from a slight angle (the highway was on a slight incline) but he could tell it was a frontier town, like in the old west. The buildings were made of wood and crude brick. The medieval stone wall enveloped the town completely, again like a medieval village. When he was in school (before he killed Carl Powers) he had been taken to Boulogne in France, the famous walled city, and Pangaw struck him as a miniaturised version of it. The highway stretched around Pangaw, which struck Moriarty as strange. It diverted clear off of it, with only a diverted road carrying on to the town itself. At the end of the diverted road there was a gate built into the stone wall. It was less a medieval village gate than an opening with thick parking lot barrier gates set in front of it. When he looked closer, he saw that the barriers were made of logs. It was quaint in a way that, were he more of an aesthete, he could have considered it fascinating.

"I don't like this, Jim," Fring said, suddenly.

"Give it a rest, you sound like fucking Spock." He grinned, and it was not reciprocated.

"We have a body in our trunk," Fring replied. "There's obviously someone manning that gate. If they ask to search the trunk, we're in trouble. There's a reason the highway diverts from this place…they're obviously selective over whom they allow in."

"If they ask to search our trunk, I'll kill them too," said Moriarty, hoping that was not the case. "I need to stop. If we keep going and I don't find a place to eat, I'm going to start by eating our friend back there. You heard me say _start, _right?"

"We'll go in," Fring replied, ignoring the second threat. "But be cautious."

They approached the gate, and a small, officious-looking man appeared from the other side of the gate. He was perhaps five foot tall, and he wore what looked like a primitive military uniform. It was something you might find in the Yugoslav wars; faded green khaki and a leather jacket. He gazed on the two suspiciously.

"Bonsoir, gentlemen," he said in a perfect French accent. "You are from the Fields, yes? You are passing through?"

"_Peut-être_, Monseur," said Moriarty, remembering the French word for 'maybe'. "We would like to settle for the night."

"Most of the newborns sleep in the Fields," the guard replied, but he sounded sympathetic. "You may have difficulty finding a bed without money. If you cannot find somewhere, I would still recommend you sleep outside within the walls. The roads are _très dangereux_, oui?"

"Dangerous how?" Fring asked.

"Bandits!" said the strange little Frenchman. "Vagabonds, yes? You can learn more about them inside if you wish. Talk to Vicky, the barkeeper."

"Thank you," said Moriarty. The man removed both of the logs from the gate, allowing them to pass. As they prepared to drive in, the man gave them a small wave.

"Welcome to Pangaw," he said. "My name is Henri."

They introduced themselves briefly, then drove slowly inside the town.


	3. Chapter 3: Pangaw

Pangaw would, on earth, be seen as a bizarre anachronism. It was for all intents and purposes a frontier town, forged out of wood, stone, and the materials that would be used to build simple settlements. It also had a modern vein to it; near the other side of the gate was a car park where several other misshapen junkers were parked. Beyond the car park was a single road featuring packed-in houses on either side. On the right hand side, around one hundred meters up, was a tavern with the words 'Red Lion' painted onto a metal sheet that hung around a foot above the door. Once they had left the car, they headed towards the tavern.

The streets were not full of people, but there were residents walking around, and they wore a bizarre mix of clothes. Some were marked as new arrivals from the clothes they wore; it was clear they had died in them, because there were bloodstains on them that had survived a wash. Others had clothes that they had clearly made themselves, such as t shirts barely sewn together or shorts that were simply wrapped around the legs and held using knitting needles or sharp pieces of metal. Other people were dressed in more finery; one lone man walked the streets in overalls that were made of some fine, silk-like material that Moriarty guessed wasn't grown on earth. Overall, the men and women of Pangaw dressed not dissimilarly to residents of earth, but the minor differences were strikingly surreal.

The Red Lion was a primitive, functional place, and the main bar was about the size of a hotel lobby. Everything was made of various shades of wood; the walls were darkly panelled, and the bar, tables and chairs were wooden also. Some was very well made, some wasn't. This was a slow night for the bar, as only several sour-faced patrons were dotted around. Once they had observed the place from the window, they headed inside, passing through the saloon-styled doors.

The locals looked up briefly at the new arrivals, then returned to their own thoughts as Fring and Moriarty approached the bar. It was built sturdier than the tables and chairs in the bar, which Moriarty supposed made sense because if the bar gave way, most of the alcohol would also. The booze was not in traditional bottles, but jars on the counter with handwritten labels. Serving at the bar was a woman in her fifties, pale and plump, with short hair and a tight-fitting t shirt. She had a no-nonsense look about her, but she smiled at the two men warmly.

"Evenin' lads," she said, in a thick Geordie accent. Moriarty suddenly realised why the tavern was called the Red Lion; it was an English pub, run by an English woman. "What can I get you's?"

"Do you serve food?" Moriarty asked politely, a touch of desperation in his voice that he hoped wasn't picked up upon.

"For another hour or so, pet," she said. "We've got beef, chicken, ostrich and ostrich egg. I recommend the beef, like."

He pulled the strange notes with gold leaf out of his pocket and presented them to the landlady. "Is this currency good here?"

"You must be from the Fields," she replied. "Aye, this money's definitely good here. I'm Vicky. Welcome to East Cadaris."

"Thank you," said Fring. "My name is Walter Salamanca."

"John Holmes," said Moriarty, catching on. "East Cadaris? Is that where we are?"

"Aye," said Vicky. "How'd you come across this much money? Most of the newborns don't earn their first dollar until they've been here a week. You must be brand new, otherwise you would have known your money was good here, like."

_ECD stands for East Cadarian Dollar, _Moriarty thought to himself suddenly. He guessed by extension that _CM _stood for _Cadarian Mile _(it certainly didn't mean centimetres) although he didn't know why it excluded the eastern segment of the name.

"We found this," said Fring, his mind leaping into action, "alongside a car with the key in the ignition, around five miles back. There looked like there had been a struggle. We didn't know who to alert, so we thought it was best to take the car and the money to town."

"Hessians," said Vicky, her voice full of anger. "Bet yers any fucking thing. Those bastards have gotten worse and worse."

"Haitians?" asked Fring, puzzled.

"No, not Haitians, pet, Hessians," she said. "I'm not bein' racist, like. The Hessians are a group of thugs that plague this highway. They're outlaws. Like one o' them biker gangs, innit, like the Hells Angels. They're even named after those outlaw horsemen back in the olden days."

"I remember reading about the Hessians in school," said Moriarty. "German horseback mercenaries in the American revolution. The Headless Horseman was a Hessian, and if they're a biker gang then the name could be a reference to him."

"Do you think they would commit murder?" Fring asked, and for a moment Moriarty had to admire his impeccably feigned concern.

"Widnae be the first time," said Vicky. "I'll give 'em their due, if you give 'em what they want and don't challenge 'em, they'll leave yer unharmed. Sometimes they even leave the victim sommat to get home, a bit of money or food, like. But if yer try to fight 'em or protect what's yours, they'll hang ya out to dry. Murders are rare…but they happen." She shook her head in fear and disgust. "Stay off t' roads at night, lads, that's what I say. The night belongs to them. Everyone who lives in Pangaw is behind these walls when the sun sets. Round here, it's only safe to travel during the day. Be with you in a sec, Mark," she said, turning to one of the locals that had appeared at the bar behind the two men. He wore a dark overcoat and a check shirt that had stains on it. As Jim turned to him he smiled at Vicky, and made a circle out of his thumb and forefinger, the universal symbol for 'okay'.

Turning back to Fring and Moriarty, she said, "But I've bored ya to tears already. What'll ya have?"

"I'll have the beef," said Moriarty, and Fring agreed.

"Ye'll not have the ostrich? They're much nicer, like. The Amponsahs have a small ostrich ranch a little down the way. Don't know why so many ostriches come from the Fields, like, but they does. Nice family, the Amponsahs. Killed in a car crash together in Accra, so it's a sad story. Only the son speaks English, on account o' he was studying in England just before it happened."

"I really fancy some beef," said Jim.

"Nae probs," Vicky replied. "What about drinks?"

Moriarty inspected the labels on the drink jars. There was _Home Wine _(which came in red and white) _Moonshine_,_ Bathtub Gin_,_ Pangaw Ale, East Cadaris Whiskey_ and _Rye Special. _The drink that looked the least corrosive was the Pangaw Ale, so Moriarty ordered that. Fring opted for the red home wine.

"They're both brewed local," Vicky beamed. "The Pangaw Ale is actually made right here, like, in the cellar."

She passed over two jars from the back room. He handed over some notes and she handed some back. They took a table near the window, surveying the people outside. They had what looked like one of the sturdiest tables, which was good, though their chairs wobbled uneasily. They opened their jars simultaneously, and a sweet, musky smell hit them. It was heavenly after a day of walking, driving and ultraviolence. The few locals (including Mark, who was at the bar) eyed them with interest rather than suspicion, not batting an eyelid to the fact that Moriarty was drenched in blood.

"To life after death," said Fring, and they clinked jars and drank. The Pangaw Ale definitely tasted like it had been brewed in a tiny cellar, but it tasted as good as it smelt. He wasn't an ale drinker, but he might become one if this was the standard. He drank slowly; the ale had a kick to it, and he was still far too wary of Fring to get drunk around him.

"I suggest a plan of action," said his companion, lowering his voice. "We drink our drinks, eat our dinner, then talk to Vicky about rooms for the night. After it's booked, we go out and bury the body outside of town. We drive back and we get as much information from the locals as possible. I want to know everything about East Cadaris, every conceivable thing that will help us."

"I don't think it's a good idea to bury the body tonight," Moriarty replied, in a barely-audible whisper. "You heard her…the roads are dangerous after dark. Let's wait until morning. It'll look suspicious if we take a drive at this time of night."

"If we wait until morning, the stench will be unbearable," said Gus, taking a sip of his wine. "It won't come off of us, and that will be far more suspicious. I'm sure you've disposed of bodies in your time; you should know this."

"Alright, good point," he conceded. "What if we played it another way? We head out on the road tomorrow, but we buy something in town first. Something so big you'd need to put it in the boot. We open the boot…lots of witnesses, mind…and find the body. We act as shocked as everyone else. We take a wild guess and say that the Hessians, or whatever they're called, probably dumped him there. I don't know about you, but I'm a phenomenal liar. I think we can pull this off."

"I'm sceptical," Fring replied. "We have no idea what kind of crime-solving techniques East Cadaris has."

"They have wooden road signs," said Moriarty, dismissively. "I doubt it's that up to scratch. We can do this, Gus." He took a longer sip of his ale. "Fact of the matter is, us having this money and this car is suspicious, even with the story you told. Two shifty guys who just arrived, buying a shovel and suddenly absconding for a late-night drive in bandit country? That's far more suspicious." He shrugged. "Why are we using fake names again? If anyone recently-dead recognises our faces, we're in deep shit."

"They're more likely to recognise our names," said Fring, finishing his wine. "You were in the newspaper a lot before you died. I'm willing to bet you're a household name, now. As for me, mild-mannered fast food magnate turns out to be a high-level distributor of crystal meth? That's exactly the kind of story tabloids love to pick up on. If anyone here recognises our names, we're going to be under ten tonnes of scrutiny."

"Walter Salamanca," said Moriarty, smirking. "I'm going to get you a porkpie hat and a bell."

"John Holmes," said Fring, not smiling. "I'll trade a deerstalker for that porkpie hat."

"Food's up, pets," said Vicky, appearing at the table. She put two chipped plates before them, both containing plates of succulent meat. It literally was just meat; there were no vegetables on the side or anything except the beef. Moriarty looked at it with a desperate hunger.

For the next two minutes he was in a world of his own, cherishing the beef like it was mana from heaven. It was an excellent cut, but he would have eaten it if it was rancid. Fring ate much more conservatively, using the knife and fork provided. By the time Moriarty had eaten through the entire plate, he was only halfway there.

"Enjoy?" Fring asked.

"You have no fucking idea."

"It is good," the Chilean agreed.

"So, what are you planning to do here, Gus?" Moriarty asked. "New lease on life, new world to explore. Are you going to cook some fried chicken? Set up a new branch of…Los Chicken Face, was it?"

"Los Pollos Hermanos," Gus said between mouthfuls, and this time he did smile.

"The Chicken Brothers. Alright. What are you planning to do? Set up an East Cadarian branch of Los Pollos Hermanos? Find a meth cook and eke out a living dealing drugs?"

"Perhaps," said Gus. "I won't make any judgements until I know more about the place."

"What if I were to tell you I plan to go on exactly the same?" said Moriarty, leaning in. "Once I see enough of EC to learn the lay of the land, I'm going to set up an enterprise, the likes of which this place won't ever have seen. A huge criminal empire stretched out across this new earth, with unlimited power and influence. What I'm telling you Gus, really, is that I want to make my _magnum opus_."

"I can only compliment your vision," said Fring. "Why are you telling me all of this?"

"Because I know an equal when I see one, and you, Gus, are my equal. I see things in your eyes that others don't. You're intelligent, you're shrewd, and you're totally ruthless. You hide behind this veil, this milquetoast act, but I can see dead though it. I'm looking for a partner, fifty fifty."

"It's an intriguing prosal," said Fring. "What would our…empire…deal in?"

"Drugs and extortion, at first," he replied. "Maybe meth, or something else if we can get a farm or a chemist. You'll oversee distribution, naturally, as it's our field, and I'd handle extortion. Once the money's rolling in, who knows? We find the best way to accumulate money and power in this place and we exploit it until we're kings."

"I'm more than willing to entertain this," said Fring. "I have to admit, one of the first thoughts I had in the Fields was rebuilding. Meth was a dirty, dirty business but was lucrative beyond measure. And I have to admit, when I first read about your exploits, I wondered what it would be like to work with you." He paused for effect, considering. "Alright, Jim. Let's see where we can take this. But before we shake, we need to get something clear. I know what a dangerous man you are, and the amount of people you've killed. Your reputation is beyond question." At this point his eyes locked deep into those of his dining companion. "I am a dangerous man too, Jim. I don't believe fear is an effective motivator, but I feel it best to tell you at this point that I am not to be underestimated. If you attempt to screw me, my response will make you wish we had never met. Is this clear?"

"Crystal," said Moriarty. His face showed no signs of fear whatsoever, but he suddenly found it difficult to match Fring's gaze. "Let's shake on it, then."

He extended his hand over the table and his new business partner shook it. A wave of understanding passed between them. Both men knew, on that warm night in Pangaw, the sheer scale of what they were undertaking, but neither could ever have guessed how much one handshake had set the wheels of fate moving. Chaos was about to fall on this new world, and chaos was about to take over the lives of this fated partnership.


	4. Chapter 4: The Sheriff

"There used ter be one Cadaris," said Vicky, as she studied the map she had crudely drawn with a pencil (graphite only, no wood) and a sheet of what looked like papyrus. "It all got populated by the English speakin' folks that came through the Elysian Fields. Word is they all gelled together for a while, even. Then some folks started ter get rich and some folks started ter get poor. Bit inevitable, really, like that…what do you call it? Social…"

"Social Darwinism?" Fring offered, as he and Moriarty sat on the other side of the bar. He had learned growing up in poverty-stricken Chile that the best way to get information was to tip a tavern keeper.

"Aye, that's the one. The folks with the drive did all they could to get rich here. Some of it was above board, like manufacturin'. Some of it weren't. Either way, when our society first got together and when the cities got formed, the rich folk lived in the middle of the rest of us. But the problem was, people were comin' through the Fields in droves. The poor didn't mind a bit, the more's the merrier, but the rich got nervous. Thing is, the people that came through didn't die from old age, not the end of their lifespan, but young. You take ten people who died young, and I'd say that at least six out o' ten of 'em died violently. They might o' been involved in a gang or some sort of corruption. Sometimes, they were just a rabid dog and needed to be fuckin' put down, ya know what mean?" She looked suddenly grim. "The rich blokes figured that there was a good chance that a lot of people what came from the Fields would be gangsters, outlaws, hooligans, etc. That was a threat and they decided to get around it by breaking off from the common herd. They moved west and formed West Cadaris."

She pointed to an area on the map. The map depicted an island, roughly in the shape of a peanut, and from the rough dimensions Vicky had given, the size of Madagascar. There were large dots for big cities and smaller dots (and pencil strokes) for smaller settlements. A tiny dot had been identified as Pangaw by Vicky's fingernail.

The point she was pointing two was the thinner gap between the 'western peanut' and the 'eastern peanut'. The western side was smaller. In this thinner strip she had drawn several triangles which Moriarty took to be a depiction of mountains. There was a gap between the mountains.

"Here's the border between East and West Cadaris," said Vicky, pointing to the gap between the drawn mountains. "The West Cadarians, as they called themselves, made this part the border. There's the mountains, and an open bit of land in between them. The open bit o' land is a rigidly-patrolled border, and the mountains defend themselves."

"So, the rich people moved to West Cadaris and erected a fence to keep undesirables out," said Moriarty. "Was it only them on the other side? That's no way to run a society, when there's only rich people and no one to actually run things on the day-to-day."

"Very astute, pet," said Vicky, winking at him. "West Cadaris has visas. If you have a marketable skill yuz can get past the border. Probably make a wee fortune while you're at it." She pointed to a big circle on the other side of the mountains. "That's Pinnacle. That's the city's name, but also a good way o' describin' it. It's a huge city filled with glitterin' skyscrapers. You can see the skyline from the other side of the border. Most East Cadarian lads can't get past the border on account of they ain't got nothing to offer in terms of skill, but the ones that can demonstrate they 'ad a skilled career in their past life get in. No one commits any crime or nothing that side of the border, cause if they do, they get frogmarched back to East Cadaris."

"That's West Cadaris," said Fring, circling an area on the map. "What's East Cadaris like?"

"It varies," she replied, and pointed to a big dot which was south east of them. "That's Nuevo. Spanish word for _new. _We take words from all languages cause we get so many nationalities that come from the Fields. It's a huge city, bigger than Pinnacle, but much different. It's got massive tower blocks and industrial parts. It looks like somethin' Stalin would have built for the most part. Some parts are nice, but they're a minority. It's the type of place where if you're walking around alone, like, yuz carry a gun. The Hessians on our road are kids compared to some of the gangs you get in Nuevo."

"Where do the nationalities go?" asked Fring. "Clearly the majority of people here speak English. Is there another part of Cadaris where non-English speakers congregate?"

"Some are in Cadaris," she replied, and pointed to a smaller dot in West Cadaris. "This city 'ere, about two hundred CM south of Pinnacle, is called the Mandarin city. It's got a proper name, but it's in Mandarin, so it's just a symbol to us. Only Mandarin Chinese is spoken there. Funny thing is, only a few of 'em are actually Chinese. It's mostly for business people on account of Mandarin is the second business language after English." She smiled. "Some non-English speakers settle in Cadaris. There are loads more like the Amponsahs. But other nationalities settle in other countries. You get a couple of people who start a colony then everyone else who comes from the Fields just joins them."

"How do they do that?" asked Moriarty. "How do they know where to go?"

Vicky pointed to a spot west. "On this bit of the highway is one of the most wonderful things you've ever seen. It's a billboard that someone built, just like from the old world. At first it had advertising on it, but people soon saw to that. People from all over the world write on this billboard. They give directions in peoples' native language telling em where they can find their own people. They draw maps and give coordinates. We reckon almost every language in the world has been written on this huge billboard. It's…I'm not gonna lie pets, it brings tears to my eyes seeing it. It's beautiful. Really demonstrates the power of the human spirit. You get good luck messages and proverbs. I can't read any of 'em, mind, but other people I've seen the billboard with have."

She seemed lost in her own thoughts for a moment, then recovered, pointing to another dot in East Cadaris. "Apart from Nuevo, the biggest settlement in East Cadaris is Praxis. It's a huge manufacturing plant where they make pretty much everything. They ship to the cities in both countries and the East Cadarian main mint is there."

"What about governance?" asked Fring. "Do both countries have Presidents? Monarchs?"

"West Cadaris has a President," Vicky replied. "But I wouldn't hold your breath about runnin' for the post. You have to be a Class One landowner to run, which means rich. And if you're on a visa from East Cadaris, you have to have had it for at least ten years. It's corrupt as anything."

"Sounds positively Georgian," Moriarty mused. "Bet they have rotten boroughs and all."

"East Cadaris has a Lord Protector," Vicky said. "The guy who invented the office was a big civil war fan and he got it from Cromwell. He's only got minor power." She pointed to another dot in the southern part of the eastern map. "This is Founder's Hill. It's a fortified town where the Lord Protector is based. The nicest place in East Cadaris by far, but it's only for politicos. The Lord Protectors have always run this place like a fiefdom, but it's the only place where they really have power. Everywhere else East has its own governor and their obedience to the Lord Protector is only a formality."

"How is he selected?" asked Fring.

"Or she," said Vicky. "Never mind the 'Lord' bit, like, it's a gender neutral title. I couldn't even tell you who the Lord Protector is right now on account of we don't get a lotta news down here. I know the guy is quite new but that's all I know. Not really important information, ter be honest."

"You've been extremely helpful Vicky," said Fring, kindly. "Do you have anything else to tell us that could be of use?"

"Aye. Stay off the highways at night, pets," she said. "The Hessians are the only ones you need to worry about here but there are gangs and mafia-type people all over East Cadari who will rob the clothes off your fucking back. Speaking of which," and she pointed to Moriarty's bloodstained suit, "you'll want to buy some clothes here. Old Martin Cassidy runs a tailor shop on the other side of town. You can get clothes relatively cheap there."

"I think you've earned this," said Moriarty, and he passed her another handful of notes.

"You're good lads," she said. "I wish yers all the best of luck."

Moriarty and Fring smiled and looked at each other, and a mutual thought passed between them. _She wouldn't, _they thought, _if she had the faintest clue what we were going to get up to here. _

They stayed in the pub that night, taking out two of the rooms on the upper floor. While the rooms were small and cramped, they were much more than the men had expected. Pangaw, Vicky explained, did not have running water, because they were too far from any rivers and no plumbers had opted to stay with them. But the pub staff had helpfully drawn water from the town well, heated it and put it in a wooden bucket. Moriarty gave himself a basic wash then collapsed into bed. After the day he had had, sleep was a godsend.

His phenomenal mind had not fully come to terms with this new world, and as he drifted off to sleep he wondered one last time whether this was a dying dream that would end with him waking up, lying in a pool of his own blood on the roof of St Barts as his nemesis stood over him. That would be a particularly cruel dream, but he was fully prepared awake to this. When he did awake, still in the Red Lion's bed, he knew that meant that this world was real.

Because Pangaw was a small town, Cassidy's tailor shop was only a short walk away. It was less a tailor shop that one might expect in London and more like a discount clothing store that one might find in the American Midwest. Like every other building it was made of wood, though a cracked pane of glass served as a shop window. The man himself was a rough, pleasant old-timer with a wise, wrinkled face and a thick, pointed moustache. He was from New England, and spoke in a thick 'downeast' Maine accent that made him remind Moriarty of Jud Crandall from Pet Semetary.

"It ain't fancy, all my stock," he said. "Not as fancy as the clothes you boys is wearin', but then again, none of it's covered in blood either. I get most of my trade from new folks from the Fields. The clothes they arrive in is always in blood, or somethin' e, qually unpleasant."

Moriarty smiled and nodded. The man's entire stock seemed to be composed of cotton shirts, linen trousers and the rattan cowboy hats that their victim was wearing. In terms of shoes, everything seemed to either be cowboy boots or the type of flimsy trainers one would buy at Primark. Moriarty bought a shoddily-stitched black shirt with grey chinos and black trainers, whereas Fring opted for a white shirt, dark chinos and cowboy boots, and they dressed in Cassidy's backroom. On earth, they would have looked irregular, but in East Cadaris, they blended in like chameleons.

"If you head to the cities you can find someone who can wash that blood off," said Cassidy to Moriarty. Turning to Fring, he said, "And someone to stich that shirt if you want."

They carried their earth clothes with them as they left the shop and strolled aimlessly to the car. It was a beautiful, warm morning, and the sun beat down on the village streets. Vicky had informed him last night that, due to the bizarre rotation of this alien earth around the sun, the seasons were twice as long.

"Hey, John," said Fring, as they reached the car park. "Could you do me a favour and put the clothes in the trunk?"

"No probs," he said in response, and Fring threw a bundle of clothes at him. He caught the bundle effortlessly, and used the Allan key to open the boot.

The stench hit him hard, so much that the urge to vomit was immediate. His eyes watered and his stomach seized up. The morning sun had heated the car right up, and their victim's body had boiled. It was a truly gruesome image. The colour had drained out of the man, and the spot on his head where the damage had occurred was bleeding and discoloured. The worst part was his eyes; they had forgotten to close his eyes when they lifted him into the boot, and they now hung open, blank, dry and accusatory. Moriarty had seen (and made) a lot of dead bodies, but he had not had the dubious pleasure of seeing one that had been fried this way.

"Walter! Walt! Come quick!" he screamed, putting on as much of a performance as he could. He turned around to the villagers in their vicinity and screamed: "Get help! There's a body in the trunk! GET HELP!"

A man and woman who were in the car park screamed and ran. Two old men ran over to inspect the body and there were cries of shock and alarm from the dozen or so people in the area. Moriarty dropped to his knees and vomited near the car. It was an act; he had a strong enough nerve to shrug off such a sight but the vomit was a good way to make him look as shocked as everyone else. When he was done throwing up he sat there with his head in his hands, rocking back and forth on the ground in panic. Fring was openly crying, a fantastically lifelike act that Moriarty never would have thought possible from his expressionless companion.

"Someone GET HELP!" Moriarty screamed again, standing up. "There's a _body in our boot_!"

"Better step away from that, mate," said a gruff male voice behind him. The speaker had a thick South African accent. Moriarty spun around and found himself face to face with the source of the voice. He was a tall, well-built man in his forties or fifties, wearing a black overcoat and aviator sunglasses. He had blonde hair and a thick beard, and his face was deeply tanned. His face bore two scars, one above his right eyebrow and the other on his left cheek.

"There's…there's a body in our boot," said Moriarty again, weakly, as if in disbelief. He had told Fring that acting was no problem for him, and he had not been lying.

"I can see that," the South African said. "You can't do nothing for him now. I'll have the boys handle this from here on out." He extended a large, callused hand. "Name's Van Kreike. I'm the sheriff of this village."

"John Holmes," said Moriarty, as if in a daze.

"Why don't you come round the office?" said Van Kreike. "We can go through all the facts there. I don't want to linger around here any more than you do."

The sheriff led Fring and Moriarty away from the car, gesturing for them to follow him. For an awful moment, Moriarty thought he might be under arrest. They walked for about a minute through the streets, keeping up the terrified act and not saying anything. The whole of Pangaw, it seemed, were running in the direction of the car park. Eventually they came to a large redbrick building near the town wall. It had saloon doors like the Red Lion and a circled five-point star (like a sheriff's badge in a western) was painted in red on a wooden sign. The letters PPD were written below. Moriarty guessed that they stood for _Pangaw Police Department. _

The department was empty apart from a single man who greeted them as they came in. He wore black chinos and a dark bullet proof vest with nothing under it, like a tanktop. It wasn't kevlar, but some other, seemingly flimsier, material. It had a star painted on it in red, just like the sign outside. The rest of the office was decorated slightly better than the Red Lion; there were desks made of stronger stuff than in the Red Lion, and the wall had posters, flyers and bulletin boards.

"Everyone down the car park, Jay?" Van Kreike asked.

"Yep," the man responded. "You want a coffee, boss?"

"Nah, these fellas might though?" the sheriff replied, gesturing to them. Moriarty breathed a sigh of relief; this meant they weren't under arrest.

"I'll take one, thanks," he said. Fring declined.

Van Kreike guided them to an office in the far corner of the room. It was decorated reasonably well; the desk was mahogany or a similar quality wood, and there were books and magazines on the shelf next to it. The sheriff bade them to sit down and Jay brought coffee. It was quite bitter, and nothing Starbucks would be comfortable serving. The glass was chipped. Nonetheless, Moriarty found himself glad there was coffee in East Cadaris.

"I didn't catch your name, by the way," said Van Kreike, turning to Fring. He extended a hand.

"I'm Walter Salamanca," said Fring, and shook it.

"Pleased to meet you. I'm Van Kreike, the sheriff in this town. Why don't you tell me what happened?"

Fring told the man the same story he'd told Vicky, making sure there were no inconsistencies in case the two spoke. Van Kreike nodded, taking notes on a similar all-graphite pencil as he went along. Moriarty simply sat back, nodding and letting his partner spin the tale.

"They've become a real problem, those fucking Hessians," said Van Kreike. Pointing to his scars, he said, "They gave me both of these in a skirmish a bit further up the highway. They've become more and more violent as they've gone along."

"What a poor man," said Moriarty. "They must be savages. I hate to ask, but is this going to be an issue for us? I swear, we had no idea there was a body in the boot!"

"I can tell," said Van Kreike, with a compassionate air. "Nah, I know you're nothing to do with this. You wouldn't have opened the car boot yourselves if you knew there was a body there!"

_You're incredibly stupid, sheriff, _Moriarty thought, and fought back the smirk that had reached his lips.

"To be honest though, you will have to stay around. Not for you, but for the car. We need to take a long look at the body before we cut him out of the car. Don't worry though, we have a high-powered hose here, and once we've made our investigations we'll spray your boot to oblivion. There won't be a trace of corpse."

"I appreciate that, sheriff," said Fring.

Moriarty suddenly felt panicked. "Do you think you'll be able to prove it was the Hessians based on inspecting the boot?" he asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

Van Kreike chuckled. "Even if we had any sort of forensic technology on us, it wouldn't mean anything because we don't know who the Hessians are. All we'll be doing is looking for clues to identify their patterns."

Moriarty breathed a sigh of relief. "Good luck."

"Thanks," said Van Kreike, standing up and shaking both of their hands again. "We'll have your car back to you in a day or so's time. In the meantime, relax. Take in the sights. Go back to Red Lion and have some more of Vicky's famous booze."

Moriarty's mouth dropped open. "You saw us last night?"

"I see everyone in my town, mister," Van Kreike said with a wink. "It's my business."

Fring and Moriarty looked at each other. The wink had said more than any words could have. This man, with his unkempt beard and his simple manner, was anything but stupid. There was something in him, a spark that denoted a fierce intelligence hiding under the surface of a bumpkin hick sheriff. He wasn't on to them, exactly; he had on some levels bought their innocent traveller story. But this was not a man who could be fooled for long.

They would have to watch themselves, and their new friend, very closely.


	5. Chapter 5: On the Road Again

**Guys, thank you for your reviews! When this story got no attention whatsoever I figured that it wasn't worth taking anywhere, but getting reviews, even two of them, has convinced me to continue the story. **

**Chapter 5**

Pangaw was, for all intents and purposes, on lockdown.

Moriarty had sensed the change only an hour after they left the police station. Henri, the strange Frenchman who had welcomed them into the town, was patrolling the gate like a soldier. He carried what looked like a sword; like everything in the village, it was crudely made; it was a misshapen blade with a wooden hilt carved by someone who would not have made waves in the field of carpentry. If not for the clear, jagged sharpness of the blade, it would have been possible to confuse it for a child's toy. He was joined on the gate by another man, bigger, who carried a similar sword. The townspeople were nervous; virtually no one was on the streets despite the beautiful day, and the few people that ventured outside were looking incredibly scared. Everyone who had been outside the town walls, for whatever reason, was now making their way back inside. Henri was making a point of identifying everyone who came through in the course of the morning to ensure that no strangers were being admitted.

Van Kreike had joined his deputies by the car, and they were poring over every inch of it. Moriarty could see them from his room's window if he looked from the right angle. Fring had joined him in his room, and they were sitting on the bed, locked in thought.

"I say we make a break for it," said Moriarty, turning away from the window. "We get the hell out of dodge, right this second."

"Are you out of your mind?" Fring replied. His calm demeanour was shaken. "We don't have a car. We're…indirect suspects…to a murder we most definitely committed. That Boer sheriff is suspicious of us already, and if we leave town now we will jump to the rank of 'direct suspects'. He'll run us down in half an hour, tops."

"We can steal a car on the road, just like we stole this one," Moriarty replied. "Besides, if we leave and Van Kreike comes after us, we have a chance of getting away. If we stay here, and he finds something that proves we did it, there's no way for us to escape without us killing a lot of people, which will have to be with our bare hands again."

"You said _yourself _that they wouldn't have the techniques available to prove it was us," Fring replied, angrily. "It was how you sold this idiot plan to me. Van Kreike even confirmed it himself."

"He could have been lulling us into a false sense of security," said Moriarty, his own voice rising. "I've done it to loads of people. He's not stupid."

"Neither are we. I say we ride this out, and leave when we get our car back. No, scratch that, we leave the next morning to maintain appearances."

"And _I _say we leave right now," said Moriarty.

"No!" Fring snapped, and there was something truly unsettling about the man when he raised his voice. "You made the call not to bury the body and I went along. Now we're going to do things MY way! This is MY call!"

Moriarty stared him dead in the face. "Suppose I leave and you stay?"

"That would incriminate me and I couldn't allow that. If you committed to that course of action, you would never leave this room alive. _Try me_."

Moriarty continued to stare at him, and Fring stared straight back. It was another silent contest of wills, and the Chilean was absolutely unmovable. Physically, Moriarty was probably stronger, and could use the dynamics of this small room to get the best of him if necessary or escape before he even made a move. But something in Gus's manner told him that he was prepared to snap his neck like a twig at the first miniscule sign of dissenting action. He would do it, follow through to the killing shot in a fluid motion, then sit back down, utterly unperturbed. Faced with this certainty, Moriarty blinked.

"Okay, fine," he murmured. "We'll do it your way this time. Let's ride it out. But if they get the car back to us tonight, we leave first thing tomorrow morning."

"You're every bit as smart as your reputation suggests," said Fring. "I'm going to my room for a wash and then let's go downstairs and get a drink. It will calm our nerves."

They met around half an hour later, and were met in the bar by Vicky, who was pale-faced and nervous. Unsurprisingly, the rest of the place was empty.

"It just beggars belief," she said, then muttered it to herself as an echo. "Listen lads, don't judge this place based on this morning. I mean the country itself, and the world, not just Pangaw. It's not a violent place. There's a lot of bad people, just like earth, but there's a lodda good people as well. A few pieces of scum can't change the fact that this is a good place, a second chance for all of us. Trust him."

"Trust who?" asked Moriarty, as he took a sip of his drink.

"Him. The Protector. He's…he's kind of our god. We see him as the one who brought us from our old lives here. The one who keeps the cycle of humanity moving on after death, on all different worlds."

"You're saying you're Christians?"

"No," she replied, dismissively. "We all stopped believing in the Christian God ever since we got here, to be honest. Well, none a' this is mentioned in the bible, is it? The Christians reckoned we'd go to a white fluffy heaven with clouds and angels. An' as you can see, my loves, we ain't there."

"I suppose," said Moriarty. Fring, who was a Catholic, said nothing.

"We dumped all o' that atheism malarkey out of the window as well," Vicky said. "Well, we can't say there's nowt after death any more, can we? This cycle couldn't' have come from natural selection. It's obviously divine."

"No one here is an atheist?" asked Moriarty.

"Some are, but they're a minority."

"I don't know if this is strictly divine intervention," said Fring. "If it was, surely the 'good' and the 'bad' people would go to different worlds? Does it seem fair to have people like you and people like the Hessians in one world?"

"I'll take that as a compliment, like," said Vicky, beaming. "But there is no judgement with the Protector. He doesn't punish bad deeds or reward good ones. He's not interested in all that morality stuff. Or, he'd like to be, but it would be far too bureaucratic to enforce. Either way, this is how it works."

They idly chatted to Vicky then moved to their own table. It was close enough as not to appear unsociable but far enough so that she could not hear what they were saying. They opted for the same drinks as the night before. Moriarty did not normally believe in getting drunk, as it clouded his judgement. But there was an edge that needed to be taken off, and there was an unconscious plan between them to get slowly plastered across the length of the day.

"What do you think of this Protector?" Fring asked, conversationally.

"I don't buy it," Moriarty replied. "Not for a second. I'm a committed nonbeliever."

"You must admit it seems unlikely that this bizarre form of reincarnation happened as an extension of the laws of physics."

"Yeah, it seems unlikely. But think about it…what kind of benevolent entity would give people like Hitler, Stalin, Mao a second chance? Put them in a world where they could do all of the same things over and over again? I can extend to this being the work of some all-powerful entity. I just think that that entity, rather than being a saviour, is a rather sick fuck."

"Agreed," said Fring, and a smile crossed his lips briefly.

"Although saying that, I know for a fact that I'm a worse person than some dictators. Robert Mugabe is actually a fairly nice guy behind closed doors. I know…knew an arms dealer that served as his butler once and apparently he couldn't be more courteous." He grinned. "But what about Hitler? What's to say there isn't a Fourth, Fifth or even Sixth Reich somewhere out there in the universe? Or maybe even on this earth? I'm a truly warped individual but even I find that horrific."

"Pinochet remembered all of his lieutenant's birthdays," said Fring, absentmindedly. "Anyway, I'm done with theology. Let's talk business."

"Right," said Moriarty. He pulled out the map that Vicky had hand-drawn and put it down on the table. The paper, or papyrus, was delicate and was ripping at the sides. They glanced at it both like generals around the table making plans.

"What do you say we head towards Nuevo?" said Fring. "It's a basic principle of business that cities are the place to operate. We manipulate our way to the leadership of one of the larger gangs and use our mutual acumen to coordinate a protection racket. If East Cadaris is as decentralised as Vicky suggests, it will be very difficult for law enforcement to register a response. It will be like the United States, before J Edgar Hoover brought policing across state lines."

"I agree. We make ourselves big in Nuevo first, then once we have the power we use it to cross the border and set ourselves up in Pinnacle. We make all the money we can, and we become like gods. Like little Protectors of our own."

"I'm glad we're in agreement," said Fring.

They sat there, voicing arbitrary additions to the plan. It wasn't out of a sense of getting as much information as possible, rather just a compulsive need of two desperate men to pass the time. It was roughly three hours later when Jay, one of Van Kreike's cops, came into the tavern looking for them. He still wore his bullet proof vest as a tanktop, and he looked hot and bothered. He greeted the two with a casual wave.

"Hey, fellas," he said. "We've power-washed your car, and the sheriff says you're free to go."

"Thanks," said Moriarty, and they jumped up. Fring, who had some more of his drink to go, downed it in one. They headed out of the pub, waving a slight goodbye to Vicky, and walked to the car park. When they got there, Van Kreike and his deputies were waiting. The car's boot was open, it was soaking wet, but Moriarty had no doubt that they had washed every trace of corpse out of it.

"Good as new," said Van Kreike, taking off his aviators. "Only whiff you'll get off that beauty is new car smell."

"That's amazing," said Moriarty, with false enthusiasm. "Thank you so much! Do you think you'll be able to bring them to justice."

"It's our hope, mate," the sheriff replied. "It's our hope. But to be honest, I don't know."

"We won't be a burden to you any further," said Fring. "We may as well get on the road."

"I'd stay here one more night, if I were you," said Van Kreike, shaking his head. "It's late afternoon. The Hessians are probably laying low thanks to the murder, but they might still be patrolling the highways when it gets dark. You don't want to run into them. Least of all fucking now, yeah?"

"We do need to keep moving," said Moriarty. "We've both had a drink, but we're more or less sober now. We love this town," he said, feigning enthusiasm, "but we were both saying it would be good to hit the road. See a bit more of the place."

"You don't have to worry about the drink," said Van Kreike. "It's hardly illegal, unless you're gesuip. Even if it was, there's no one to enforce it. Me and McNulty, that's the sheriff of the next town over, organised a highway patrol once, but the Hessians ran us off the road in less than a month."

"What is the next town?" asked Moriarty.

"Milsbury," said Van Kreike. "It's a few miles south east of here, on the way to Nuevo. If you're travelling in that direction, stop in at Milsbury before sundown. They've got a hostel you can stay the night at. It's cheaper than what Vicky charges for a room, anyway."

"We're not heading straight for Nuevo," Fring lied, and Moriarty immediately realised he didn't want Van Kreike to know where they were going. "But we'll certainly check it out."

"Alright then. Safe journeys, lads." He extended a hand, and both men shook it. Fring and Moriarty got in the car. Moriarty drove, and after extending a final wave, they left the town.

The highway stretched ahead of them. The afternoon sun was still as hot as ever, and it gave the road a bright, hazy look. As Pangaw drifted out of sight along the road, Moriarty wondered if he would see the village again. He wasn't prone to sentimentality, being the remorseless sadist that he was, but he hadn't been entirely lying when he said that he loved the place. It was the first human settlement he'd seen in the new world, and he wasn't going to forget it overnight. He wondered what Fring thought on the matter, then realised that it didn't particularly matter.

"Do you want to stay in Milsbury?" Fring asked. "It might not be such a bad idea."

"Might as well," he agreed. "But then we get as far away as possible from this whole area, and that damn sheriff."

"I don't think we need to worry about Van Kreike," Fring said, carefully. "He may suspect us, but he's so backwoods that I strongly question any notion that he could track us down. We're clear, Jim. I'm the most cautious man you'll meet, and I believe that we're clear."

* * *

"A rock to the side of the head," said Van Kreike, looking over one of the pencil sketches that the deputies had made of the body. He was sitting in his office with Jay, the newer recruit. The force was out in the main office, having departed the car park. "Two strikes, maybe. You can tell by the wound. Pretty misshapen, and I was sure I felt some gravel fragments in there. Nasty, nasty way to go. What bothers me most is that it doesn't match the MO of the Hessians. They use swords and knives."

"They could have improvised, sir," said Jay.

"Maybe," Van Kreike replied. "Or maybe someone else did."

"You think it's those guys?"

"Maybe," he repeated. "Do me a favour, Jay. Run a letter to the post box." He took a paper envelope from his drawer and pushed it over the desk. The rookie picked it up and read the address.

"Lars Kessler, Department of Records. Who's that?"

"I'll explain when you get back. But the post will be going out soon, and I want to get this out as early as possible."


End file.
